


MORE OF A DOG PERSON

by AgnesClementine



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur has cats, Getting Together, M/M, Pets, and he and Eames are in love, and he's tired, that's basically it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine
Summary: He moves down the hallway silently, and then stops at the entrance to the kitchen, where Eames is simultaneously trying to feed the filter into the coffee machine and keep the rest of Arthur’s cats from getting near it.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89





	MORE OF A DOG PERSON

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capt_ann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capt_ann/gifts).



> *points at fic* this baby moved into my head rent-free as soon as [Ann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capt_ann/pseuds/capt_ann) showed her adorable doodles in server. So, this is for Ann <3
> 
> I am,,,,slightly sleep-deprived as I'm posting this, so this wasn't proofread or anything and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think and enjoy! :)

The job they pull in Croatia goes off without a hitch, but Arthur still ends up feeling tired to his bones at the end of it. They make a base in an old-timey house near the sea, thick stone walls and blue, Sun-bleached wooden blinds keeping out the heat. The weather is nice throughout their whole stay, _hot hot hot_ and blessed with a few downpours that cool them off in a second and send them searching for sweaters in their wardrobe- and the internet connection is terrible. There are cafes and bars scattered all along the shore, but Arthur can never bring himself to do his work in any of them, so exposed and vulnerable to anyone who might sneak a glance. So he goes over other things during the day, poking at Ariadne’s cardboard structures at the kitchen table, talking about their weaknesses and strengths, testing Jusuf’s compounds, looking at the photos of Phillipa and James on Cobb’s phone, which he eagerly shows him (“They’re growing so fast, Arthur.”). 

Mostly though, he veers closer to Eames’ workspace- the living room- to peer at surveillance photos and notes Eames has assembled while tailing the mark’s son, all strewn across the room in the sort of chaotically organized way that only Eames can make sense of. Sometimes he’s there, humming to himself or adding notes or picking at Arthur like he usually does ( _like it’s a flirtation, like he’s watching Arthur because he wants him_ ) just to make it seem like he’s doing something. 

And then, at night, in that golden timespan between 3 and 6 am when every normal person is asleep, he sits on the couch- the same spot Eames occupies during the day when he’s in the house- and he fires up his laptop, balancing it on his knees, and goes to do some of his own work. One day, he leaves his phone jammed between the cushions and then has to wrestle it out of Eames’ grasp when he finds it after Arthur goes to make coffee in the morning.

The whole team settled into a comfortable rhythm, so even with the hitches in Arthur’s internet access- for which he makes up for basically working overtime, of course- the job goes smoothly. Cobb leaves first, then Jusuf and Ariadne. He parts with Eames the day after, when he’s sure they haven’t left any loose ends, and finally, after a week of minimal two hours of sleep- if he’s lucky- Arthur finally boards the plane that will take him back to his home. He doesn’t sleep on the plane, not really; he’s too paranoid to fall asleep in public like that, so the most he does is doze off, swaying on the edge of consciousness in a way that makes him clumsy with a craving for real sleep as he fumbles with his house keys, then as he takes off his shoes and hangs up his coat before familiar cries cut through the fog in his head.

And then he’s swarmed in a sea of colorful fur, his cats winding around his feet and pawing at his calves while meowing for attention.

Arthur makes a noise of adoration in response, clicking his tongue, and shuffles down the hallway, then drops down on his knees in the living room, all four of his cats headbutting his thighs, squeezing in close as he drags his fingers through their soft fur. Bingo is purring so hard Arthur can feel the vibrations up to his elbow and Dot is trying to crawl up on his back, tiny claws poking into his dress shirt. He slumps forward to make it easier for her and soon she settles near his shoulder with a happy _meep_ , nosing at his ear.

Peanut- the newest addition- is still a little shy with his affection, leaned against Arthur’s thigh, and rubbing his cheek into Arthur’s knee when Arthur scratches his side. Cat, on the other side, is raising on his hunches to eagerly bump his nose against Arthur’s face. They are all leaning into the side of too-plump and Arthur absently notes that he’ll have to talk to Ms. Miller- his neighbor that cat-sits while he’s working- about feeding them too much again. Even though she acts like she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Arthur coos at them quietly, listens to their rumbling happiness, and soaks up their warmth as the last bits of tension leak out of him, leaving him absolutely exhausted. He contemplated just face-planting into the soft carpet in front of the couch, but ultimately decides he deserves an actual bed where he can stay passed out until his cats start whining at him to feed them.

“Okay,” he says, surging down to bump his nose against Cat’s, and then slowly rises to his feet, mindful of Dot, still perched on his shoulder. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He’s barely out of his slacks and shirt before he collapses on the bed, starfished on his stomach, his face shoved into his pillow, and falls asleep.

✱✱✱

Sometime later- the hours blur together while Arthur’s mind moves through molasses, lazy and greedy for more sleep- he stirs when there’s a yelp from the general direction of the kitchen, and a following curse in the voice that Arthur would know anywhere but has never- until now- heard in his own house.

Curled up on his chest like a fluffy, white ball, Dot lifts her head at the noise, ears twitching, and then settles down again. Arthur doesn’t move either, his heart beating wildly against his sternum. _Eames_ , he thinks. _Eames is here_.

That prompts him to move, getting out of the bed with Dot securely tucked against his chest, happy to be carried around for now. He moves down the hallway silently and then stops at the entrance to the kitchen, where Eames is simultaneously trying to feed the filter into the coffee machine and keep the rest of Arthur’s cats from getting near it.

Cat is meandering around his bare feet, and Arthur watches as Eames, still oblivious to his presence, bends down to say, “You do understand that if you don’t want me to step on you again, you have to get away from my legs?”

Cat _merps_ at him and flicks his tail.

“Cheeky bastard,” Eames tells him fondly and gently wiggles his toes against Cat’s side.

Arthur, wondering if he’s suffering a sleep deprivation induced hallucination, makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. Because, Christ, Arthur can deal with Eames being handsome and charming and smart- but this is too fucking much.

At that, Eames’ head finally snaps up to look at him. “Oh!” He says. “He lives!”

“What are you doing in my house?” Arthur asks, aiming for sharp, mad, demanding- and probably missing them all for a mile because, truthfully, his cats and Eames and the whole damn kitchen are still kind of swimming before his eyes.

Eames shrugs, faux-nonchalant, and rubs the top of his foot under Cat’s belly. Peanut is cautiously sniffing at his palm where it's resting casually on the top of the counter. “I wanted to see the new one,” he says.

“What?” Arthur asks.

“The new cat,” Eames clarifies, turns his hand palm-up, and offers it to Peanut to nose at some more.

“You wanted to see my new cat,” Arthur says numbly. “How do you even know I have cats?”

“I saw photos on your phone. Back when we did that job in Norway. And I saw a bag of cat treats in your jacket once.”

“You mean you snooped through my phone and went through my things?” Arthur asks, curbs in the want to cross his arms when he remembers that Dot is still lounging in them, snuggled in close.

Eames tips his head to the side in shameless confirmation. “I was hoping to find your nudes, to be honest,” he admits with a flick of his eyes down Arthur’s admittedly scantily clad form. “But the cat photos were nice too.”

Arthur fights a blush, unsuccessfully, and throws Eames a mild glare before lightly setting Dot on the kitchen table- she looks at him in betrayal, but she’ll get over it- and saying, “I’ll go get dressed.”

He all but runs back to his bedroom, diving for his die, still in the pocket of his slacks.

He wants to pull on his slacks and a dress shirt. He wants to wrap up in layers of silk and wool and cotton and he wants to drown in them, hide where Eames and his warm, hungry eyes and soft mouth won’t ever find him. Eames and his easy affection for Arthur’s cats. (He thinks about that display in the kitchen, about Eames soft tone, and feels out of breath.)

Instead, he forces himself into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that will be covered in white, black, gray and orange hairs as soon as he steps back into the kitchen. 

He doesn’t bother preparing himself to go out there, there’s no amount of preparing that would get him ready for this, so he pockets his die and just walks out.

He finds Eames with his head halfway inside Arthur’s fridge.

“Where’s all your bloody food?” He asks.

Arthur slips into a chair at the kitchen table- Bingo and Dot immediately run over to him, hopping up on his lap. Bingo has a piece of grey duvet fuzz in his jet-black fur and Arthur absently picks it out and drops it on the floor.

“I don’t really cook,” he says.

“What do you eat then?” Eames asks, coming up with a lone carton of eggs.

“Takeout?” Arthur responds, unsure, massaging Bingo’s cheeks with his thumbs.

Eames makes a noise of disbelief, staring at him like Arthur’s the one who broke into _his_ house and is apparently set on making breakfast. “Unbelievable,” he mutters to himself and then swears under his breath when he almost steps on Cat’s orange paws again.

Arthur’s head feels too light; the rest of his body, his limbs heavy as if weighted down with lead, and he tips forward, bracing his cheek on his crossed forearms on the tabletop. Immediately, Dot scrambles up to curl in the nest-like space between his head, neck, and arm and starts purring contently while Arthur’s eyes follow Eames’ movements. Through the fog in his head, a realization pierces through as Arthur watches him move about with ease, opening cupboards and drawers as if he already knows where everything is; _he’s been here before._

Eames has been here before, in his kitchen, rooting through his drawers and his depressingly empty fridge. Arthur should be enraged- but Eames is making breakfast and babbling fond insults at Arthur’s cats while they’re looping around his ankles in front of the stove. 

The second realization doesn’t accompany it until Eames sets a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee in front of him. He eyes Dot napping in the crook of his neck and arm softly, and then shifts his gaze to Arthur’s exhausted face, softer yet.

Arthur’s skin heats up at that, and he looks away, busies his hands with his cup, inhaling the scent greedily. This is unfamiliar territory; the house whose every nook and cranny Arthur knows as well as his own palm, and Eames, like a new freckle on his skin.

Dot jumps down into his lap- she knows she’s not allowed on the table when Arthur’s eating-, then down on the floor to clamber up into Eames lap- and steal a piece of egg from his plate.

Arthur freezes with his cup halfway to his mouth, lips pursed to blow away the steam. He sets it down a little harder than intended, making Dot look at him from the edge of the table, and says, “Oh, my God. You’ve been feeding them.”

Eames is quiet for a second, undoubtedly trying to figure out how to respond, eyes scanning over Arthur’s face cautiously.

“No,” he says in the end, but it lacks conviction- especially when Bingo paws a piece directly from his fork. 

“Eames,” Arthur says, not sure how to continue but knowing he has to say something because Eames has been coming here and feeding Arthur’s cats, and now he revealed himself because he wanted to meet Peanut (who’s slowly inching his way to the table, sensing there’s food being passed around).

“You need to stop,” he says.

Eames’ expression shutters down. “Oh, right,” he says, flicks his eyes to the side.

It occurs to Arthur that he might think about leaving, that he might think that Arthur wants him to leave and that is- that is the last thing Arthur wants.

“I meant feeding them,” he says quickly. “You don’t have to- you just have to stop feeding them.”

“Why?” Eames asks but relaxes in his chair again.

Arthur looks at him, then at his cats- round and nipping away at eggs on Eames’ plate- like true opportunists that they are- and back at Eames. “Because they’re fat,” he says matter-of-factly because, well. _They are._

“They are...pleasantly filled out,” Eames counters, risking a glance at Cat who decided to drop all manners and is devouring the eggs directly from Eames’ plate.

“They can’t get out the doggy door,” Arthur says.

“Well, the doggy door is- it’s for the dogs,” Eames fumbles out. “Why do they have to get out the doggy door?”

“Because they never ask me when they want to go outside and then they go stir-crazy in here and attack the curtains.” They never leave the backyard, but whenever they come back inside, Arthur has to pick leaves and branches out of their fur and vacuum the grass and dirt out of the carpets.

“Ah,” Eames says in understanding. “You could. Get a bigger doggy door?”

Arthur gives him a scathing look. “Or you can stop allowing them to overeat. They’re gonna get sick.”

“No, they won’t.” Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur suspiciously, “Are you trying to guilt me into not feeding them?”

Arthur is trying to figure out what decision led him to this point in his life.

“I’m not,” he tells Eames, rotating his wrist to gesture loosely at Dot, “the vet told me when I brought Dot for a checkup. They could develop organ issues.” 

Eames observes him critically and then, slowly (as he’s taking in the truthfulness in Arthur’s eyes), a look of horror falls over his face.

“Oh. My. God,” he says and quickly lifts the plate high above his head. “You greedy little bastards, you’ll eat yourselves into an early grave,” he tells Arthur’s cats seriously over their meows of protest.

Dot climbs up on his shoulder, then puts her paws on his forehead, trying to reach the plate while she mewls miserably. Cat follows her lead.

“Arthur,” Eames says, stretching his arms as far as he can to keep the plate out of their reach.

Arthur debates leaving him to fend for himself- he did get himself into this mess- but in the end, he gets up and scoops both his cats off Eames’ head.

“I charge 50 bucks for preventing a mauling,” he tells Eames as he sets the cats on the floor, then picks Bingo off the table and does the same.

“Do you now?” Eames responds, setting the plate cautiously on the table again and looking at his decimated eggs.

Arthur hums. “I do. Luckily for you, I can give you 20% off for being an idiot.”

“Huh,” Eames says, scratching at his temple and looking vaguely guilty. “Yeah, that seems fair.”

He keeps looking at his plate miserably and Arthur pushes his own- untouched- closer to the middle of the table.

Eames looks at it, then at Arthur.

“That’s your breakfast,” he says, makes it sound like a reprimand.

“Well,” Arthur says, “since my cats ate yours- completely your fault, by the way- I think we can share mine.”

He stabs his fork into the eggs, not the one to turn down a meal that he didn’t have to defrost or heat up in the microwave. (And the one that Eames made. After he broke into his house. Maybe it’s poisoned.)

Eames’ fork- a new one without cat drool on it- joins his own a few moments later.

“I didn’t know you like cats,” Arthur comments into the silence only interrupted by the clinking of their forks against the plate. 

Eames shrugs, “I’m more of a dog person, to be honest,” then scratches the back of his head, “but...they’re yours.”

And that is…

“Oh,” Arthur breathes out, feeling bare and overexposed, and wants to reach out to curl his fingers in the front of Eames’ soft-looking shirt.

Eames hums in agreement, seemingly uncomfortably comfortable with the confession; poking at their food and avoiding Arthur’s eyes while his ankle nudges against Arthur’s under the table.

They finish the breakfast quietly and sip at their coffee between the bites while the cats lounge all across the floor. Then they do the dishes, standing side by side at the sink. The domesticity of it all is like a dream and, once again, Arthur finds himself rolling his die between his fingers, his eyes trained on the relaxed, content slope of Eames’ spine and shoulders while he scrubs their cups and lets Arthur’s cats loop around his ankles and brush against his calves.

Eames likes his cats because he likes Arthur. It’s a strange, simple thing to tug at his heartstrings. 

“Eames,” he says when they’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, forearms brushing. His heart is beating wildly and his throat is dry because…

Because nothing. _This is Eames_ , he tells himself, _and he likes Arthur’s cats and he likes Arthur._

When Eames turns, Arthur repeats his name soundlessly, just his mouth curling softly around the letters before he leans in. Eames makes a noise in the back of his throat; something fond and warm, just a second before their lips meet. Then he’s grabbing blindly for the dishcloth to wipe his hands with and one of his palms comes up to cradle the back of Arthur’s head as he pushes into the kiss, the other pressing like a brand against Arthur’s side.

“Arthur,” he half-groans into Arthur’s mouth, arm wrapping around his waist to pull them flush together, fingers sneaking into the waistband of his sweatpants. Arthur’s fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt, and he flushes, tries to press even closer- and then a fuzzy tail brushes against his leg.

He breaks off the kiss to whisper, “I’m not sleeping with you while my cats are in the room.” It’s not even a real possibility at this point, not yet, but Arthur voices it out loud and their faces are still so close together that Arthur feels the brush of Eames’ lips when they pull into a grin.

He looks down at the cats in theatrical contemplation, then asks, “Would it lower my chances of getting lucky if I shooed them out of the room, then?”

And Arthur just says, “Don’t worry, they’ll leave when they realize they don’t have my attention anymore,” and drags him in for another kiss.

✱✱✱

Later, they’re sitting on the couch and Dot is, as usual, the first one to hop up and snuggle down on Arthur’s lap. She’s warm and soft and Arthur’s fingers start scratching between her ears almost absently. On the carpet, Bingo is sprawled out like one of those skinned animal rugs- and Cat is sitting on him as if he really is one. Peanut is, like an actual, normal cat, napping in the patch of light near the sofa, close enough that Arthur could touch his tail with his toes if he stretched his leg.

“That one,” Eames comments, lifting his hand from Arthur’s shoulder briefly to point at Cat, “is a real bastard, hm?”

Arthur snorts, then asks, “This one?”

Eames drums his fingers over Arthur’s collar bone gently, says, “Well, I didn’t really get a chance to catch their names. And they wouldn’t tell me.”

Arthur makes an amused noise in his throat and starts pointing to connect the cats with names. “This is Dot, the black one is Bingo, the “real bastard” is Cat, and the new one is Peanut.”

Eames' eyes are bright, delighted by their names, and he opens his mouth to say something- but then he catches up with everything and turns his head to blink at Arthur. 

“You- you named your cat... _Cat_? That’s really remarkably creative, I must say, darling.”

Arthur grins- tilts his head to the side when Eames touches the dimple in his cheek with his thumb, leaning into the touch- and says, “That’s short for Catnip, I’ll have you know.”

Eames laughs, head thrown back and his whole frame shaking enough to jostle Dot in Arthur’s lap. She grumbles and stretches out on her back across both their laps, legs sticking up in the air in her “demanding scratches” pose.

Eames raises his eyebrows at her and his arm slips from Arthur’s shoulders when Arthur takes his free hand, guides it towards her. “She wants belly scratches,” he explains.

Eames looks at him, not convinced.

“Really,” Arthur tells him, pulling more insistently on his hand.

Eames looks down at Dot, staring up at them expectantly, and says, “Alright, Dot, I trust you to be a lady and leave my hands unscathed.”

She doesn’t make a sound and Eames slowly touches his palm to her belly and when that doesn’t elicit a violent reaction he was expecting, he flexes his fingers lightly, starting to scratch. His eyes barely widen a fraction when she starts purring loudly, blinking in bliss, and his lips twitch, wanting to pull into a smile.

Arthur reaches behind himself for Eames' other arm and puts it back around his shoulders.

“What are you- oh,” Eames starts and cuts off when Arthur leans in, puts his head in the lightest contact against Eames’ shoulder. He feels a ghost of Eames’ lips brushing a kiss against his forehead, hears a rasp of Eames’ fingers over his poker chip near his ear, and looks up just to find Eames’ eyes already pinned on Dot, petting her in genuine adoration.

Arthur watches him for a long moment, taking in the affection and softness in the lines of his face, and then he closes his eyes.


End file.
